


It's a Kind of Magic

by colonel_bastard



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gryffindor Quidditch Captain Jim Kirk may or may not have a long-standing crush on that weird half-Veela Ravenclaw kid Spock.  He's still trying to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Kind of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Hogwarts AUs are my ultimate weakness. This one was inevitable.

Kirk is just rounding the pitch with the Quaffle tucked securely under his arm when he catches sight of Spock perched high up in the stands. It shouldn’t be that easy for him to pick out a face in the crowd when he’s hurtling around on his broom at maximum velocity, but Spock is a fixed point and, honestly, tends to draw Kirk’s eye no matter the situation. This time he just happens to be especially noticeable. While the rest of the students are on their feet and cheering, Spock looks for all the world like he’s sitting in a classroom, quiet and focused and wearing his usual expression of reserved observation. Kirk is a little amazed to see him there. It isn’t even a Ravenclaw game. 

He’s so caught up with staring that he doesn’t even see the Slytherin Beater until he’s on top of him. They collide at incredible speed, the Quaffle thrown in one direction while Kirk’s broom gets thrown in another, and it’s all he can do to keep from plunging the two hundred feet down to the ground below. By the time he regains his balance the Quaffle is halfway across the pitch. His shoulder is throbbing at the point of impact, but he steadies himself on his Nimbus 1500 and throws his weight back into the game, determined to play it out. 

He’s just glad he didn’t fall while Spock was watching.

In the end, although Slytherin catches the Snitch, Gryffindor wins the match. Unlike so many of the young team Captains, Kirk never pins the game on his Seeker— he uses strategy and teamwork to ensure the highest overall score. Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, will not hesitate to remind anyone and everyone that Kirk was the youngest team Captain in Hogwarts history, having been appointed at the start of his fourth year. It’s become such a part of his school identity that many of the first and second years simply call him Captain Kirk. 

After congratulating his team on their performance, Kirk makes his way to the hospital wing, one hand held protectively over his aching shoulder. Madam Pomfrey smiles when she sees him, though she makes no attempt to intercept his progress. She knows he’s not there to see her. Kirk grins when he spots his target reorganizing the contents of a supply cabinet. 

“So,” he calls. “How come you’re never at the Quidditch matches, Bones?”

McCoy doesn’t bother looking up from his work, his attention riveted on the myriad of colorful glass bottles in his care. 

“Bad for my nerves,” he mutters, scrutinizing a faded label. “And it’s not like you need the moral support. Just about every girl in this school is a cheerleader for James T. Kirk.” 

“You missed a good game,” Kirk insists. He waits for McCoy to inquire about the outcome, but when he doesn’t, Kirk adds, “We won.” 

“No, really?” McCoy turns to give him a sarcastic look of surprise that crumples instantly into a look of dismay. “Damn it, Jim, not _again!_ ” 

Kirk gives his wounded shoulder a guileless shrug. “Could’ve been worse.” 

“Of course!” McCoy marvels. “You could’ve broken your leg!” His eyes narrow. “Oh, wait. That was _last_ year.” 

“Just fix me up, Doc.” 

“Sit down on the bed,” McCoy jerks his chin towards the nearest one. “And get your shirt off.” Kirk is already opening his mouth for the saucy reply when McCoy cuts him off with a curt snap of, “Spare me the innuendos, please.” 

He finds that it’s surprisingly difficult to remove the garment, his joints screaming in protest when he raises his arms over his head. When he drops his shirt into his lap, McCoy takes one look at him and declares, “It’s dislocated. Nice work.” He draws his wand out of his robes. “Hold still, this might sting a little.” 

Ready, aim, “ _Revertio_ ,” and Kirk feels the bones pop right back into place, good as new. He starts to get up but McCoy is already pushing him down again. 

“Settle down,” he grumbles. “Let me give you something to help those muscles recover. You’re not invincible, you know.” 

As he sets to fussing about with various Potions supplies, Kirk tugs his shirt back on and then rubs absently at the mended joint, soothing away the burn of the resetting. 

“You might have missed the game, but do you know who didn’t?” 

“Let me guess,” McCoy sighs. 

“Spock!” Kirk is still astounded by the fact. “Since when does he go to Quidditch matches? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him at a game in my life!” 

“Maybe he lost a bet,” McCoy suggests dryly.

“No, that’s not it,” Kirk waves away the idea. “He seemed really... interested. Like he wanted to be there. He was paying attention.” 

“And how could you know that? Unless you were...” Realization dawns on him and McCoy whirls around, a vial of salamander blood still in his hands. “Jim, did you _really_ get your shoulder dislocated because you were distracted by that Veela kid?” 

“Half-Veela,” Kirk corrects. “And I can’t help it, he’s distracting!” 

And really, _distracting_ doesn’t even begin to describe it. There’s been something... _fascinating_ about Spock since day one, when the Sorting Hat barely brushed his dark head before singing out, “Ravenclaw!” The only other student to be Sorted so instantaneously that year was Kirk himself, born to be a Gryffindor. Even McCoy had to sit and sweat it out while the Hat considered Ravenclaw, though once he got to know him, Kirk would realize that his placement in Hufflepuff couldn’t be more obvious. At the time, however, his attention had been elsewhere. For the whole welcome feast he sat craning his neck across the gap between the tables, trying to get a better look at the strange, silent boy with the pointed ears. He wanted to know everything about him. 

Like the rest of the school, he learned the details soon enough. Spock’s mother is a Veela and his father is a high-ranking Ministry official. Male Veela are rare enough, but a male half-breed is even rarer— where his mother has fair hair and flawless beauty, Spock’s hair is coal-black and his ears are stuck somewhere between human and harpy. Many had feared he would inherit the explosive temper of his mother’s people, but in defiance of this he displays no temper whatsoever. In fact, he seems to register very little emotion at all, though whether this is his actual disposition or the result of intense personal control, Kirk is still not sure. 

There is one thing, however, that he _definitely_ inherited from his Veela ancestors— Spock is unnaturally, irresistibly attractive. It’s something that no one ever really talks about, but Kirk can feel the pull every time he looks at him, like gravity or the ocean tide. Kirk has been staring at him since before he even knew why, and now that he’s in his sixth year, he’s worried that it’s about to cross the line from distracting to overwhelming. 

“You can’t go letting yourself get sidetracked like that.” McCoy’s voice jars him back to the present. “Especially not in the middle of Quidditch. That game is dangerous! You remember Scotty, in Ravenclaw? He lost a _finger_ because he wasn’t paying attention!” 

“He lost a finger because he was too stubborn to leave the pitch in the middle of a game,” Kirk chuckles. He’s always kind of admired Scotty for that one. 

“Never mind that!” McCoy says irritably. “My point is, you’ve got to keep your attention on the sport, not the spectators.” 

“I do!” Kirk protests. “I mean, usually. It was just this one particular spectator.” 

“You’re crazy.” McCoy adds the last pinch of asphodel to his potion. “I’m telling you, Jim, that kid’s a cold fish.” 

“I thought you said he was an odd duck,” Kirk counters. “And I’m not crazy. It’s not _my_ fault, it’s that Veela thing. I can’t help it.”  


 “What do you mean?” 

“You know,” Kirk gestures vaguely, gazing off into space. “How he just makes you want to do anything to be near him. Or say anything to impress him. How you just want to... to touch his hand, maybe, or even just sit next to him...” 

His voice trails away as he realizes that McCoy is staring at him like he’s just sprouted horns. 

“What?” he hisses defensively. 

“Jim, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” 

Kirk feels a hot flush creeping up the back of his neck. “ _You_ know. The _Veela_ thing.”

“That stuff only applies to the females.”

“Uh,” Kirk answers intelligently.

And it all comes crashing down around him. More than five years of wanting something so badly without ever understanding it. Five years of staring, and hoping, and waiting for something to happen. Five years of spotting that face in the crowd, the fixed point, the center of his view. It wasn’t the Veela thing. Not even close. He just let himself believe that it was so. 

“Honestly,” McCoy huffs from somewhere far away. “Weren’t you paying _any_ attention during Care of Magical Creatures?” 

Kirk makes no response. He’ll never pay attention in class again. He’ll never pay attention to anything else, ever, because he’s just realized that for the past five years of his life, he has been in love. 

“Drink this,” McCoy commands, shoving a glass vial into his hand. 

Kirk obeys. His shoulder feels warm, then cold, then warm again. Also he can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, but he doesn’t think the potion has anything to do with that. 

“I gotta go,” he mumbles, and without even saying goodbye he gets up and stumbles all the way back to the Gryffindor dormitory to take a cold shower. 

He doesn’t say anything else about it until Astronomy class two nights later. Astronomy class is the highlight of Kirk’s schedule. Not only is it his favorite subject, but they have it with Ravenclaw. As usual, Spock is finished with his star chart before everyone else, and as he sits quietly reviewing the week’s assigned reading, Kirk moves over to sit next to him. He whispers so as not to draw the professor’s attention.

“I saw you at the Quidditch game.” 

“Yes,” Spock agrees. 

“Yeah.” Kirk’s palms are sweating. They never used to do that, not when he thought— anyway. “You don’t usually go to games.” 

“That is true. However I have heard a great deal about your strategic talents as a Captain. I was curious to see them firsthand.” 

_He came to see me._ Kirk feels practically lightheaded. 

“How’d I do?” he wonders. 

“Your tactics initially seemed reckless and illogical,” Spock says in that calm, matter-of-fact way. “But they were ultimately successful, so I must concede that you have an excellent mind for strategy.” 

Thrilled, emboldened, Kirk blurts out, “You should try me at chess sometime.” 

And Spock turns to look at him with those dark, serious eyes. 

“I would be most interested in such an exercise.”    


Every inch of him is singing with delight, but Kirk plays it cool. He just smiles and nods and turns to gaze up at the stars, noticing in his peripheral vision that Spock mimics him and follows his line of sight with his own. They’re already falling into place. It’s no wonder. 

They’ve got five years of lost time to make up for. 

 

 

_______end.


End file.
